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longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 4 years ago

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offer me that deathless death

Jaskier has never shared the bed with a man before. Geralt is more than happy to take him every step of the way, allowing him to explore his body and the pleasure it can bring him.

[Written for the “Inexperinced” prompt for the milestone celebration]

(10.9k words, explicit, also on ao3)

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There were so, so many things that Geralt absolutely adored about Jaskier.

The look in his impossibly-blue eyes when the witcher kissed him and then broke away, so full of love that it almost hurt sometimes; the softness of his skin under Geralt’s fingertips, warm and smooth and flawless; the scent of something sweet and almost intoxicating, like pomegranate, hidden right under the sharp of his jaw and on his delicate wrists.

But above all that, Geralt loved knowing that most of those things were new to the bard. That Jaskier was completely, utterly his.

It stirred something deep in his chest, something hot and possessive, to see Jaskier’s hands tremble ever so slightly when he would reach out to him, run his hands down Geralt’s shoulders and chest, studying the lines of his body. The way he bit his lower lip to try and stop the colour from spilling over his cheeks while doing so.

Geralt would’ve never thought him to be quite so coy when it came to physical closeness but then again, Jaskier was only twenty-two and though he’d already made his way through more beds than either of them would care to count, all of his lovers were women.

Over the four years they’ve been travelling together, Geralt had seen the bard flirting with other men countless times, have seen him with kiss-swollen lips and marks on his neck but, as he had come to realise very quickly once he became the one leaving those marks, it had never gone any further than that yet.

Jaskier was almost self-conscious about it for the first few evenings but then, as he’d learned just how much Geralt loved having him all to himself, it had quickly become a weapon that he used against the witcher shamelessly.

The way he leaned and arched into every touch, little breathless gasps escaping his lips whenever Geralt would find his way to his neck, leaving bruising kisses in his wake, the way he tangled his hands in his silver hair to pull him closer still, the way he trembled under what seemed like every touch - all of that was driving Geralt insane, slowly but surely. And it wasn’t helping at all that when it all started - a little over a week ago - they were in the middle of nowhere, and the villages that they would pass on the Path were all too small to have an inn.

The bright side of it, however, was that Jaskier was growing beautifully impatient.

Every night, when they would set up their camp, the summer nights warm and kind to travellers, he would grow more and more frustrated when, drunk on the taste of Geralt’s lips on his own, he would get his hands intercepted at the wrists and seized before he could as much as strip the witcher of his shirt. No matter how much Geralt wanted him, he was going to get him into a proper bed first.

Jaskier pleaded, whimpered and threatened but nothing worked, and his impatience was growing so hot and overwhelming that Geralt could almost feel it on his skin whenever the bard was close. Though also a torture, it was an absolute delight to know that he’s the cause of it.

And even so, when they finally reach a town a little south-east of Tretogor, Geralt can tell that Jaskier is nervous. In a good way, but nevertheless.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Geralt wonders if he’d been like this the first time he had shared a bed with a woman but he also knows the answer. He remembers his own first sexual experience, a young and beautiful barmaid somewhere in Kaedwen, grateful to him for saving her father from a water hag and fascinated by his silver hair and golden eyes. She was warm and soft and gentle, taking her time with the buckles of Geralt’s armour and breathing sweet little moans into his lips.

Geralt was twenty-four then, only a year out of Kaer Morhen where all he’d really learned about sex were the stories he and his brothers would tell each other, all of them so obviously made-up that when he thought back on it, he was genuinely impressed by their imagination.

But even so, he remembers how easy it was to figure it all out, how effortless it was to find the right pattern. So he knows that no, Jaskier wasn’t like this the first time he had slept with a woman. And that thrills him even more.

He doesn’t mention it, though, allowing everything to go at its own pace and, when the door of their rented room closes behind them, he busies himself with his bags and armour, just like he always does.

Jaskier is telling him something about a fellow student he had in the Academy that is now a poet at the Tretogor court and, slowly but surely, he can feel the tension bleed away from the bard’s shoulders. He knows that on some lever Jaskier had been expecting to be tugged to bed the moment they got to the room, and that anticipation was what was making him anxious. Geralt did ask himself what did he do wrong for the bard to feel like he’d be given no time but then again, it’s hardly his fault, too much anticipation tends to do that to people.

So when Jaskier relaxes again, Geralt just smiles to himself.

“When was it that we’d last slept in a proper bed?” the bard murmurs, coming closer to wrap his arms around Geralt’s waist from behind and hooking his chin over his shoulder. “Let alone this big.”

Geralt chuckles, leaving his bags alone and covering Jaskier’s arms with his own, tilting his head to brush his lips over the bard’s temple.

“Hmm,” he hums, considering. “Three weeks ago?”

Jaskier huffs a laugh, touching a gentle kiss to Geralt’s shoulder. Through the fabric of his shirt, Geralt can feel the warmth of his lips and, despite all his self-control, it sends a shiver down his back.

“We can stay here for a couple of days,” he says, turning around in Jaskier’s arms to dip his head and steal a proper kiss from him. “If you want to. It’s been a long couple of weeks and the only way I can think of making up for them is not letting you out of my arms for a day or two.”

Jaskier smiles and bites his lips, a beautiful tint of pink spilling over his cheeks. He hides his eyes and Geralt knows better than to tip his chin up now. He knows that in a way, Jaskier is enjoying his own nervousness now that the edge of it is taken off, and he gladly allows him to savour it.

Jaskier runs the tips of his fingers down Geralt’s chest and then moves back up, over his shoulder and neck, until he can get his hand into the witcher’s hair and pull him to his lips, closing in what little distance there is between them.

He kisses him slow and sweet, and Geralt parts his lips obediently when he feels Jaskier’s tongue on them. It’s a pleasure of its own - letting the bard explore his body slowly and carefully, in whichever way he likes, allowing him to feel in control of everything that happens.

When Geralt thinks about it, he’d never known anything sweeter.

As Jaskier moves his other hand over his torso and chest from where it had been resting on the small of the witcher’s back, Geralt gladly leans into it, chasing the touch, ready to both follow Jaskier to the bed, and let him go.

Jaskier rests his hand on Geralt’s shoulder, fingers digging into the skin just hard enough to keep the witcher close, and only breaks away to suck it a breath before his lips are on Geralt’s again. It’s impossible to resist and Geralt doesn’t even try to, catching the bard’s lower lip between his teeth and drinking in the gorgeous little gasp he gets in response. He’d had more than enough time over the years to notice the way Jaskier looks at him whenever he smiles in a way that shows his canine, elongated and sharpened by the mutations and the Trials. And though the bard never openly admitted anything, it wasn’t necessary.

The temptation to bite just a little harder and see how Jaskier will react is not the one that Geralt can keep at bay and so he gives in, tipping Jaskier’s chin up and biting at his plush lower lip, not so hard as to draw blood but enough to have the bard arch his back, chasing the feeling and flinching away from it at the same time. The choked moan that escapes his chest sounds more like a whimper and, by the gods, Geralt can barely breathe with just how much he wants him.

Fortunately for him, they’re close enough to one of the walls that it only takes Geralt two steps to press Jaskier up against the wooden panels and kiss him again, keeping the initiative to himself this time, licking into the bard’s mouth and keeping him close with a hand on the small of his back.

If there’s anything that he’d learned over the last week and a half is that even though Jaskier loves his freedom to touch and kiss whichever way he wants, he also loves just how much stronger Geralt is, how, if he wants to, he can just take, asking no questions.

Geralt had first discovered it a week ago when, after they had settled in for the night, the kisses had grown hotter, hungrier and Jaskier, his hands everywhere at once, had finally caught on the hem of the witcher’s shirt only for Geralt to intercept his wrists and pin them above his head. He wasn’t really expecting anything aside from displeasure from the bard, keeping his hands away simply because telling him to do so would not have been enough but the way Jaskier looked at him them, pupils blown so wide that there was barely any blue in his eyes, had told Geralt everything he needed to know.

And it would’ve been a terrible mistake to deny them both such pleasure.

Careful not to overstep, to always make sure that Jaskier doesn’t feel trapped, he indulged them both, knowing perfectly well that more often than not Jaskier wouldn’t keep his hands to himself for the sole purpose of having them pinned above his head once more. He struggled against the grip with little to no intention to actually escape it and Geralt could feel his pulse pick up when all of those attempts failed and Jaskier knew that he’s helpless against the witcher.

If his life depended on it, Geralt would not have been able to decide what he loves more: allowing Jaskier to do anything he wanted to him, mapping out his body with careful hands and lips, or having full control over him.

Moving even closer, Geralt shifts just enough to push his thigh between Jaskier’s and he can’t help but grin at the way the bard gasps, already half-hard.

“You’re so easy to turn on, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of it,” he murmurs into his ear, breaking the kiss and finding his way to Jaskier’s neck, still bearing the marks he’d left two nights ago.

He doesn’t see Jaskier blush but he feels it in his scent, sweet and heady, like peach blossoms. He breathes it in, lets it fill his lungs, barely suppressing a low moan as he undoes the hooks on the bard’s doublet one by one.

“Geralt--” Jaskier breathes, eyes fluttering closed as the witcher sucks a new mark onto his neck, the sparks of pain only adding to the pleasure.

His hands are shaking as he cups the sharp of Geralt’s jaw, making him lift his head, and pulls him to his lips to kiss him again. Geralt lets himself be manoeuvred willingly, giving the control back and something low in his abdomen ties into knots at the way they can play with power like that.

He’d never been the one to obey easily but letting Jaskier take things his own way held a different kind of power within it.

Knowing that Jaskier cannot keep his hands off him, always so open and sensitive despite his own nervousness and fear, was better than any control Geralt could imagine.

“Bed,” Jaskier breathes into his lips, stepping away from the wall. “Please.”

Without looking, Geralt takes a step back towards the bed, leading Jaskier after him without ever breaking the kiss and it’s when the back of his knees already hit the mattress that there’s a sharp knock on the door and Jaskier flinches in his arms, eyes flying open.

“The bath you ordered is ready,” comes a female voice from behind the door. “When you’re done just leave the towel on the door handle and my boys will deal with the water for you.”

Geralt recollects himself faster, thanking the innkeeper and, as he listens to her make her way back down the stairs, the heels of her shoes tapping against the wood, he can feel Jaskier rest his forehead against his shoulder, laughing breathlessly.

His cheeks are bright-red either with the heat or with the sudden embarrassment for the state he’s in, and even though Geralt is dying to tease him about it, he’s trying so hard to hide it that the witcher chooses to pretend that he doesn’t see the blush.

“You’ve ordered a bath and forgot about it?” Geralt asks, pressing a calming kiss to Jaskier’s temple, his own shoulders shaking with laughter, as well.

“Turns out it’s very hard to keep such insignificant things in mind with you around,” the bard smiles, still hiding his eyes and so gorgeously embarrassed that Geralt can’t help but lean in and steal one more kiss from him.

Geralt lets him go when he pulls back and as he sits down on the bed, watching Jaskier fumble with the ties on the sleeves of his doublet, his fingers still shaking, he realises, though not for the first time but with an intensity that he has never felt before, just how hopelessly in love he is with him.

“Jask,” he calls softly, extending an arm towards him and pulling the bard closer when he takes his hand. “Everything alright?”

Jaskier allows himself to be pulled down into Geralt’s lap and, after a second, takes in a breath and finally looks him in the eyes.

“Yes,” he says, brushing a stray lock of the witcher’s silver hair out of his face. “I’m sorry, I just got a little… overwhelmed.”

Geralt can feel it in his scent but he doesn’t say it, dipping his head to touch a gentle kiss to the curve of his shoulder, instead. Jaskier relaxes under the touch, tilting his head to give better access.

“We don’t have to do this if it’s too much,” Geralt says softly. “If you’re not ready.”

“No,” Jaskier says immediately, pulling back to look the witcher in the eyes again. “I want to. You don’t even know how bad. But I just… can we wait until the evening?”

The blush is now slowly fading from his cheeks but his eyes are shining just as bright as before, and he looks so impossibly beautiful like this that Geralt can feel his heart skip one of its slow beats.

He leans in, brushing his lips over Jaskier’s warm cheek, and smiles at him, pulling away.

“Of course.”

***

Over the four years that they’ve spent together, they’ve never really seen each other naked, so when Jaskier leaves for the other room to take his bath, Geralt knows better than to follow him, no matter how close they’ve gotten over the last days or what’s going to happen in the evening.

He gives Jaskier the space they both know he needs right now and heads downstairs, where more and more guests are gathering around the tables as the sun is starting to set.

At first, he wants to get himself a drink for the time to go by faster but then, after giving it some thought, decides against it and instead orders a bath for himself, as well. It takes a little bargaining but in the end, he manages to successfully convince the innkeeper to set it in one of the empty rooms. Fortunately for him, this inn is big enough to have the baths and the beds in separate rooms instead of just behind a panel screen.

It’s not that he necessarily needs a bath, since the night before they camped close to a riverbank and he’d sneaked out for a swim when Jaskier fell asleep, but he just wants one. While summer nights are warm and the water in the river was more than pleasant, it still cannot compare with a proper hot bath.

And, well, when he thinks of it, he does want his hair to still be damp and smelling of herbs when he comes back to bed tonight, wants his skin to be warmed and softened by the water, wants to be as close to perfects as he can be - for Jaskier.

He can imagine the way he’s going to touch him once finally given full permission, the way he’s going to look at him, with those impossibly-blue eyes, and it feels… special. Gods know Geralt’s never been the one for sentiments but there is only so much one can do when there are so many feelings mixed into the equation.

As he sheds his clothing and steps into the steaming bath, just on the right side of too hot, he thinks back on what it felt like when Jaskier had kissed him for the first time. It was mostly his own doing, he supposes, for he couldn’t keep his hands to himself when they’ve settled in for the night but at the same time, he could hardly be blamed for it. With Jaskier pressed close to his chest, a sleeping arrangement they’ve somehow fallen into sometime in the last year, his scent was so overpowering and he was so close that it barely even registered with Geralt that he’s got his nose burrowed in the bard’s chestnut hair, just breathing him in.

And, well, it was only a matter of seconds after that that Jaskier was turning around, reaching over to get his hand into Geralt’s hair, and kissing him.

Then, finally, everything fell into place.

If Geralt had known sooner that that was the reaction he was going to get, they would’ve probably been sleeping together for months not, if not years, but the longing did have something special, almost bittersweet within itself.

The way Jaskier kissed him, both gentle and absolutely desperate, justified the previous three and a half years that Geralt had spent yearning for him, convinced that his feelings aren’t reciprocated because why would Jaskier flirt with just about everyone right in front of his eyes?

“Because, you goddamn idiot,” he laughed when the witcher had asked him. “I thought that if you get jealous, you’ll finally do something about it.”

Ah, so that was his strategy.

But none of that really mattered anymore, not with Jaskier parting his lips oh so obediently for his tongue and trembling so sweetly that it didn’t take Geralt long to realise he’d never really went further than kisses with other men and that anything the witcher was going to do to him would be a first. Oh, the way it made his blood boil.

But on some level, he was worried, too.

All the men he’d been with before were… well, more experienced. They knew exactly what they wanted and what Geralt wanted from them, it was a practised pattern, easy to fall into for a night or two and then fall out of it just as easily.

But with Jaskier, Geralt knew it would be different. And he couldn’t help but think that he might do something wrong, might be too much. After all, he was a witcher and his hands were made for a sword rather than a body as beautifully delicate as Jaskier’s. He would never hurt him, of course, not deliberately, at least, but he was still… a witcher.

Geralt shakes those thoughts off before he can concentrate on them too much and closes his eyes, slipping lower into the hot water, instead.

As it washes over him, Geralt allows his mind to wander until he can think of nothing but the feeling of Jaskier’s lips on his own.

***

When Geralt comes back to their room, the bed is still empty and he can hear soft splashes of water from behind the door to the bathroom along with Jaskier’s humming of a song he’d been composing lately.

Geralt rolls his eyes in fond exasperation, already used to the bard always taking forever in the bath whenever he’d get his hands on one. But, well, he’d always come out smelling of his oils and salt, mild enough not to cause the witcher discomfort, and then Geralt couldn’t really complain for after a long bath Jaskier had always searched for more warmth in his arms.

Geralt can’t imagine this time being different, so when he gets into bed, having left his trousers on an armchair in the corner of the room, there’s a sweet little thrill of anticipation that runs through him. Even if Jaskier won’t want to take it any further than kisses, just the feeling of his warm, slender body close to his own is enough for Geralt to consider himself a very happy man.

He stretches on the wide bed with a soft pleased rumble, his hair, still damp from the bath, brushed back with only a few loose silver strands falling into his face, and reaches for a book that he’d been carrying around for the last couple of weeks. When Jaskier asked, the witcher had told him that it’s about the flora of the Skellige Isles and that he needs it for future reference on elixirs and salves, because he couldn’t bring himself to admit that it’s a romance novel he’d bought when they were passing Rinde. The story was ridiculous but the erotic scenes were hot and decently written, so he wasn’t complaining. After all, everyone’s allowed a little guilty pleasure.

Geralt wasn’t really paying attention to how much time had passed but he was just about to finish a chapter when he’d realised that the splashing in the other room had stopped and after just a few moments, Jaskier slipped through the door, nothing but his smallclothes and an oversized shirt on.

It’s what he usually sleeps in when they have a proper bed, and so does Geralt, because wearing trousers to bed is a form of torture, and Geralt should be used to it except now, when he’s finally allowed to touch and kiss and feel, he can’t help but bite his lip at the sight.

It doesn’t help at all that Jaskier’s wearing his shirt, as well.

“Is that mine?” Geralt enquires, still.

Jaskier smiles at him, almost teasingly.

“The shirt or me as a whole?”

He crosses the room, coming closer to the witcher and takes the book away from his hands, closing it and putting it aside, on the bedside table.

“Either way,” he says, his hands coming to rest on Geralt’s shoulders as Jaskier straddles his hips in one effortless, almost practised move. “The answer is yes.”

And oh, how good he is with his words.

His body is a pleasant weight on Geralt’s hips and the witcher barely notices it when his hands come up to rest on Jaskier’s waist, his skin warm even through the fabric of the shirt. From this position, he has to tilt his head up to look at the bard but it’s not something that Geralt minds.

He’s aching to reach up and kiss him but even more than that he wants to let Jaskier be the one to set the pace, and so he waits, just rubs little circles into his sides with his thumbs and even that, somehow, makes the bard shudder.

“Do you still want me?” he whispers, brushing a silver strand away from Geralt’s face and letting his fingers linger on the sharp of his jaw.

Geralt can feel his heart skip a beat.

“Always.”

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath and then his fingers are under Geralt’s chin, tipping his head up more, and he’s kissing him, just as gentle and desperate as he did the very first time.

Geralt can’t help but moan softly into his lips, the realization of finally being alone and in bed fully catching up with him at last.

He slides one of his hands up Jaskier’s back, barely holding back from getting under his shirt so soon, and pulls him closer, letting the bard’s scent wash over him, fill his lungs from wall to wall. He can feel the oils Jaskier’s used for his bath, the herbal soap he uses on his hair, but under all that, he can feel his own scent - sweet, heady pomegranate, with something even richer, even sweeter slowly mixing in and he knows Jaskier well enough to recognise the scent of his desire.

Jaskier breaks away for only a second, their lips never fully parting, and takes in a shallow breath before kissing Geralt again, slower this time, his entire body leaning into the witcher’s touch. And then again. And again.

Geralt kisses him back gently, his other hand moving up to tangle in Jaskier’s hair, still wet after the bath. He runs his tongue over the bard’s bottom lip but, when Jaskier parts them obediently, withdraws, earning himself a disheartened little whimper as a reward.

“Teasing me, Witcher?” Jaskier asks, a little breathless as he breaks away.

Geralt grins, showing off his canine.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, not even trying to sound innocent.

Jaskier’s eyes are already darker than they usually are, transfixed on the witcher’s grin, and Geralt knows perfectly what exactly he’s looking at, what draws in so much of his attention.

“You and your fucking witcher mutations,” he hisses, dragging his thumb over Geralt’s bottom lip and leaning down to kiss him, hard.

Geralt laughs somewhere deep in his chest.

“What about them?”

Jaskier leaves him without an answer for they both know it well enough, and dips his head to touch his lips to Geralt’s neck, right under the sharp of his jaw. The touch sends sparks of pleasure up Geralt’s spine, and his eyes flutter closed as he tilts his head to give the bard more access.

The neck had always been a sensitive area for him and as much as a couple of well-placed kisses could have him biting his lips but right now, with Jaskier kissing him, he can barely hold back a moan.

“How long have you wanted this?” Jaskier asks, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Geralt’s throat, his hands slowly making their way down the witcher’s chest.

Geralt has to bite his lip, hard, to keep himself from getting under Jaskier’s shirt.

“More than three years,” he says, catching the bard’s lips with his own when he lifts his head. “Pretty much ever since we met.”

“Ever since we met,” Jaskier echoes, kissing him again and slowly, carefully rolling his hips against Geralt’s, tearing a sigh out of them both. “And yet you waited all this time.”

His breath is hot on Geralt’s lips and before the witcher has the chance to answer, he’s silenced with a kiss, Jaskier’s tongue hot and wet when he licks into his mouth. Geralt doesn’t mind being led, not with Jaskier, so he allows for it with pleasure, arching into the touch when the bard finally slips his hands under his shirt.

It’s not that Jaskier’s hands have never been on his chest or sides before, because of course they have, helping wash off blood and wrapping bandages around fresh wounds but it was always a necessity, with no time to actually feel, to study the firm muscles and the pale scars. Geralt did catch Jaskier looking a couple of times but that too wasn’t nearly enough.

Geralt can feel Jaskier’s hands tremble slightly as he rucks his shirt up and moves just far enough from the headboard of the bed for him to pull it off over his head. Jaskier drops the shirt to the floor beside the bed, his hands finding their way to Geralt’s broad chest and for a moment, he just looks, brushing his thumb over a healing cut on the witcher’s collarbone.

His hands are warm against Geralt’s skin and though he’s not used to such direct attention, it feels good.

“Like what you see?” he teases, watching Jaskier slowly move his hand down his chest, stopping just between his ribs, just the tips of his fingers touching skin.

That gets him the result he wanted, a flush of colour spilling high on the bard’s cheeks and Jaskier bites his lip, hiding his eyes in a gesture that Geralt had grown to love a little too much.

“Yes,” Jaskier says, only a whisper. “Gods know I’ve been dreaming about you for years.”

He dips his head, brushing his lips over the cut he’d been tracing and, after a moment of hesitation, slips lower, to Geralt’s chest, eyes fluttering closed.

He’s careful with his every touch, like it’s Geralt who’s never been in bed with a man, not him, but it sends Geralt’s head reeling regardless, knowing where that tentativeness is coming from. Unable to help himself anymore, he gets his hands under Jaskier’s shirt, tearing a soft little gasp out of him, and runs his hands up his back, both encouraging and calming.

Jaskier kisses a line down his chest, touching his tongue to the skin every time, and there’s only so much that Geralt can take before he’s searching for the hem of his shirt.

“Can I?” he asks, tugging on it just a little to indicate his intentions.

Jaskier goes still for a moment, his breath heavying, but Geralt can tell that it’s anticipation rather than indecisiveness. And it’s only a second before he nods.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Gods, yes. Please.”

More than anything Geralt wants to flip them both around, lay Jaskier down on the pillows and just kiss him until there’s no air left in his lungs, wants to make him tremble with pleasure, hear those little choked-off moans and whimpers, but he knows that there will be time for that, and right now what Jaskier needs is time. And that is something that Geralt can give him.

He pulls the bard’s shirt off him slowly, letting his hands brush over his sides, and once it falls down onto the floor, he keeps his eyes locked with Jaskier’s for a long moment before running his gaze down his shoulders and chest, all the way down to his lower abdomen. Jaskier’s heart rate picks up even more so than before, and Geralt leans in to brush his lips over his neck, feel the carotid pulsing under the tender skin.

Jaskier leans into it, until they’re chest to chest, and gets one of his hands into Geralt’s hair, pulling him closer, giving him more access, more freedom, while his other hand never quite stills on the witcher’s chest, like he’s mapping out every curve and line.

“Talk to me,” he pleads, throwing his head back with a soft moan when Geralt presses another open-mouthed kiss to his neck, sucks a mark into it with just a hint of his canine scraping over the skin.

Geralt knows just how inexperienced Jaskier is, can feel it in every touch of his hands and lips, but the bard had never told him directly, and it’s too tempting for Geralt to deny himself the pleasure.

“You’ve never been with a man before, have you?” he murmurs, letting his voice drop to a soft purring rumble that gets Jaskier’s heart beating faster every time.

He doesn’t have to see the blood rushing to Jaskier’s cheeks to be able to feel it.

“No,” Jaskier admits, his hand catching on the witcher’s medallion and wrapping around it. “I wanted to, a couple of times, but I never quite had the courage. Or maybe I just never really wanted to be with anyone but you.”

Those words run through Geralt’s body like a shockwave and he breaks away from Jaskier’s neck to catch and hold his gaze.

“Gods, you perfect,” he whispers but before he can capture Jaskier’s mouth in a kiss, his lips are already back on his chest.

He seems braver this time, his kisses turning into teasing bites, like that confession was what he needed to feel more confident. It’s getting harder to breathe and though Geralt manages to keep his breathing more or less even as Jaskier makes his way down his chest, once the bard’s lips close around his hardened nipple, he fails to suppress a gasp, hips jerking involuntarily.

He’s fully hard by now and the pressure of Jaskier’s hips against his own sends sparks of pleasure through his lower abdomen.

Jaskier seems to take that as an encouragement, pressing himself closer to the witcher and rolling his hips slowly, his own cock hard and throbbing beneath the thin fabric of his smallclothes.

For a second, Geralt is overwhelmed with the desire to flip Jaskier onto his back and get his mouth on him, make him come just like that, finally learn what he tastes like, but he makes himself hold back. After all, they have the entire night.

“What about you?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt is so lost in the feeling of his hot tongue that it takes him a second to register the question. “Who was the first man you’ve slept with?”

He chuckles, pulling Jaskier up to his lips for just a second before letting him get back to his chest.

“Another witcher,” he says, nearly choking on a moan when Jaskier catches his nipple between his teeth before shifting in Geralt’s lap and moving lower. “I was eight, maybe ten years out of Kaer Morhen. He was a little younger than me.”

Jaskier takes his kisses lower, down the centre of Geralt’s abdomen, and though his hands are slightly trembling again where they’re resting on the witcher’s thighs, he doesn’t stop in one spot for too long. And if Geralt’s voice is what it takes to take the worry away, how can he refuse?

“We met in the Pont Vanis court, in Poviss. There was some kind of a creature in the harbour that was killing seamen and dockworkers at night, and the king needed a witcher to take care of it. When we asked which one of us he wants to take on the contract, he said that whoever brings him the head of the beast will get the coin. We spent two nights searching the docks and growling at each other, and all the other nights we spent in one bed.”

Jaskier’s head snaps up from where he’d been following the trail of short silver hair running down Geralt’s lower abdomen, and his eyes are widened with both surprise and amusement.

“Hatesex, Geralt?” he asks, not quite managing to hide a grin. “That’s… hot.”

Geralt laughs, shaking his head.

“We didn’t hate each other,” he says. “Coën is… well, he’s certainly something. On the third night that we were supposed to go looking for what turned out to be a vengeful siren, I’ve decided to show up on his doorstep and tell him to stop getting in the way of my hunting but instead of telling me to fuck off like I’ve been expecting, he just rolled his eyes and pressed me up against a wall.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen even more and his grin is now not concealed in the slightest.

“I’ve always thought you to be the one doing the pressing,” he says, running the tips of his fingers up Geralt’s thigh.

Denying anything is useless at this point, so Geralt just accepts that Jaskier now knows a little secret of his. Considering that there are fresh marks blooming on the bard’s neck, it’s a small price to pay.

“I am,” he agrees. “But he’s very… dominant.”

Jaskier hums something dismissive, the grin never leaving his lips even as he pulls himself up to steal a long, sweet kiss from the witcher.

“You still sleep with him, don’t you?” Jaskier enquiries, willingly allowing Geralt to pull him back into his lap and leaning into the touch when the witcher rolls his hips slowly.

When Geralt wants to, he can look just as charming as the bard, and that is exactly what he does right now.

“From time to time,” he grins.

He’s half-expecting the bard to be jealous, though he doesn’t want him to be, but Jaskier just laughs and kisses him again, blindly searching for Geralt’s wrists to guide his hands to the waistband of his smallclothes. His fingers tremble where they’re pressed against Geralt’s skin, but he doesn’t stop.

Geralt kisses him back gently, calming him and letting his hands rest on the bard’s hips for a long, comfortable moment before breaking away when there is no air left in his lungs.

“Are you sure?” he asks softly, and Jaskier just nods, a little nervously, his lips already back on Geralt’s in search of consolation.

Geralt undoes the ties on the bard’s smallclothes with practised ease and, when Jaskier shifts just enough, slips them off him, careful not to let his hands wander too soon.

Jaskier sucks in a breath, breaking away from Geralt’s lips, and his cheeks are flushed with blood again, too beautiful for the witcher to be able to hold himself back from placing a kiss on both of them.

“Alright?” he asks, tipping Jaskier’s chin up to get his attention.

Jaskier’s darkened eyes snap up to meet his, and he smiles, open and warm.

“Alright,” he breathes.

He rolls his hips, pressing himself close to Geralt, and they both moan softly at the pressure. It’s almost unbearable, taking it so slow, but it’s better than anything Geralt has ever known. He desperately wants to get a proper look at the bard, now completely naked and so, so close, wants to study every curve and line of his body, but Jaskier’s already blushing, and he doesn’t want to push it too far.

Jaskier, for his part, seems determined to finish what he’d started, so before Geralt gets the chance to as much as kiss him again, he’s already spilling back down, his lips low on the witcher’s abdomen and his hands blindly tracing the lines of his thighs.

There’s a long uneven scar that starts just above the witcher’s hipbone and curves halfway around his lower abdomen, and Jaskier halts just above it, lifting his head hesitantly.

“May I?” he asks.

It’s just now that Geralt realises he’d been avoiding his scars. And not because he didn’t want to touch them but because he wasn’t sure if he’s allowed.

Geralt lets out a shuddering breath, running his fingers through the bard’s hair.

“You can do anything you want to me,” he says.

Jaskier flashes a happy smile at him and then he’s dipping his head down to kiss a line along the length of the scar, starting from its inner side and making his way to the witcher’s hipbone, tugging on the waistband of his smallclothes just enough to give himself access.

His breath is hot against Geralt’s skin, sending tingles up his spine, and the witcher gets so lost in his pleasure that he barely registers the moment Jaskier undoes the ties on his smallclothes and tugs them off him, for he lifts his hips almost instinctively.

But once there are no more barriers of clothing left between them, he’s suddenly hyper-aware of just how close they are, and that sends his head reeling.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes, licking his lips in a gesture that Geralt can’t help but follow with his eyes. “You’re even bigger than I thought.”

Geralt has about five different ways of replying to that but just as he opens his mouth, Jaskier’s lips wrap around the head of his cock, and all words fail him.

He moans, clenching his hand into a fist in order to keep himself from getting it into the bard’s hair, and it’s so overwhelming that for a second, he thinks that he could come just like this.

“Jask--” he chokes out, taking in a deep breath and grounding himself to gently run his fingers through the bard’s hair, calming and reassuring him. Them both. “Fuck, you’re incredible.”

Jaskier smiles without pulling away and wraps his hand around the base of the witcher’s cock, stroking torturously-slowly.

He doesn’t move any further yet, just sucks lightly at the head, moving his hand over the entire length every time, but that is more than enough to have Geralt trembling, his breathing deep and heavy. He keeps his hand in Jaskier’s hair but doesn’t try to guide him, just plays gently with the chestnut locks, his eyes fluttering closed as the bard lets his cock slowly slip deeper into his mouth.

Geralt doesn’t even try to bite back a moan as Jaskier presses his tongue closer, runs it over the underside of the tip of his cock where the tender flesh is especially sensitive, and the bard echoes, the vibration going through what seems like Geralt’s entire body.

Jaskier sinks even lower, a little too fast this time, almost choking for a second, and Geralt runs his fingers down his cheek to stop on the sharp of his jaw, gentle and grounding.

“Don’t rush,” he murmurs softly, finding Jaskier’s other hand and pulling it up to his lips to press a kiss to his palm. “Don’t rush, I’ve got you.”

Jaskier pulls away to take in a proper breath, and the way he looks, with those darkened eyes, ruffled hair and lips glistening with spit and precome, is almost too much for Geralt to take.

“Come here,” he beckons, reaching out to pull Jaskier closer. “Gods, just come here.”

Jaskier obeys without hesitation, climbing back into Geralt’s lap and finding his way to his lips easily, sharing his own taste with him.

Geralt runs both his hands down the bard’s back, over his waist and hips until he can finally dig his fingers into his thighs, letting his self-control slip just a little.

He just can’t take it anymore, can’t stay in the position they’re in, his entire body aching with the need to be closer, and he wraps one arm around Jaskier’s middle to keep him close as he flips them both over, lowering the bard down onto the pillows. Jaskier gasps sweetly but doesn’t protest, throwing both his arms around the witcher’s neck.

“I’ll get you back into my lap later, if you want,” Geralt promises, breathless as he breaks the kiss and immediately finds his way to Jaskier’s neck. “All you have to do is ask, alright? Anything you want, I’ll give you.”

Jaskier nods, his bottom lip caught between his lips, and Geralt takes that as a permission, pressing his hips into Jaskier’s and paving a path of wet, open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat, moving closer still when the bard wraps his legs around his waist, his hands tangled in the witcher’s hair.

He can feel Jaskier’s cock against his abdomen, hot and throbbing, can feel the smears of precome on his skin, and his mind blacks-out completely for a second as he moans and leaves a bite on the curve of the bard’s shoulder, making his gasp and arch his back off the bed.

“Gods, Geralt, please,” he whispers, edging on a sob. “Please.”

He doesn’t have to specify what he’s asking for for Geralt to know, and he gladly obliges, biting him again, just a little harder this time, letting Jaskier feel the pressure of his canine against his skin. Jaskier tugs on his hair and whimpers, his breath coming in short gasps.

Geralt presses his tongue to the faint mark left by his teeth and moves lower, to Jaskier’s collarbone, nearly growling with pleasure when he sinks his teeth into it, making the bard shudder all over, his head thrown back onto the pillows, lips parted and kiss-swollen.

He’s growing overly sensitive and it sends a thrill through Geralt’s body, makes his blood boil in his veins. If Jaskier is this responsive now, how much further can he push his before it becomes too much?

“Jask,” Geralt calls softly, getting the bard’s attention. “You can stop me at any moment, alright? Always.”

Jaskier nods frantically, rolling his hips against Geralt’s and breaking off into a breathless moan. Oh, the things Geralt is ready to do to hear that.

He kisses a line down the centre of Jaskier’s chest, keeping his balance with one hand and never quite letting go of the bard’s thigh with the other.

It only seems fair to give what you get, so Geralt doesn’t even think about it as he sucks Jaskier’s nipple into his mouth, circling it with his tongue until the bard is writhing and whimpering under him, and then bites down, making Jaskier cry out.

“Please--” he sniffles, and it’s just now that Geralt realises that there are tears in the corners of his blue eyes. “Fuck, Geralt, please, you’re going to kill me.”

For a second, a wave of cold fear runs through his body, and his mind races, trying to figure out what he did wrong, but then he takes in a breath, takes in Jaskier’s scent, and he doesn't feel distress or pain, only the deep, rich sweetness of lust. And something more. Something that he doesn’t quite dare to think about just yet.

“Shhh--” he murmurs, touching a calming, grounding kiss to Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Jaskier pulls him closer, catches his lips in a rushed, desperate kiss, all sharp teeth.

“Please,” he says again, and Geralt can barely even think because of how easy it is to get Jaskier to this state, hyper-sensitive and desperate.

He doesn’t want to make him wait any longer, doesn’t want to deny him the pleasure, so he just nods, unclasping Jaskiers’s ankles on the small of his back to climb off the bed and reach for one of his bags, searching through it quickly to find the oil. And once he’s got the vial in his hand, he comes back and finally, finally runs his gaze over the bard’s entire body, splayed out on the dark-red bed covers just for him.

Jaskier flushes under his tentative eyes but doesn’t tense, doesn’t hide. If anything, he spreads his legs further and it’s an invitation that Geralt cannot decline.

He climbs back onto the bed, settling in-between Jaskier’s knees, and dips his head down to press a wet kiss to the inside of the bard’s thigh, making him gasp softly and flex his muscles, both leaning into the touch and trying to get away from it. His cock is throbbing and leaking precome onto his stomach, and there’s nothing that Geralt wants more than to take it into his mouth, but Jaskier seems to see right through him, for just as the witcher moves to go through with his intentions, Jaskier stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“No,” he says, breathing hard. “No, not right now. Believe me, love, I’ve been thinking about this what seems like every night but I know what it feels like. And right now I want something I’ve never felt before. With you.”

He looks so open, so vulnerable that Geralt’s heart seems to stop completely for one endless moment, and then his lips are back on Jaskier’s thighs, peppering calming kisses over the tender skin.

“Alright,” he breathes. “Anything you want.”

Geralt spreads the bard’s knees further, giving himself more access, and uncorks the vial of oil without looking, too preoccupied with sucking a mark into Jaskier’s thigh that makes him shudder and whimper, pain mixing in with pleasure.

The oil smells pleasantly of lavender and Geralt is just about to drip it into his hand, when Jaskier asks:

“Will it hurt?”

His voice is so small that Geralt would not have heard it were it not for his heightened senses. Oh, it tears his heart into pieces with just how much it makes him feel.

“No,” he says, smoothing both his hands down the bard’s thighs and leaning down to touch a kiss to his hip bone. “Maybe just a little. We’ll go slow, alright? I won’t hurt you.”

Jaskier bites his lip but nods, loose strands of his damp hair falling into his eyes. But he still seems worried, and in Geralt’s mind, there’s only one thing for it.

“You know,” he murmurs, running his tongue over the fresh mark to get Jaskier’s attention. “I could start with my tongue.”

Jaskier’s darkened eyes light up with interest.

“With your tongue?” he echoes.

Geralt just grins, closing the vial of oil again and setting it aside for now. He should’ve thought of it from the start.

“Turn around for me,” he says, and Jaskier obliges immediately, though his arms shake when he props himself up on his elbows. “Just like that.”

Jaskier doesn’t seem to know exactly what Geralt wants from him, and when the witcher runs his hands down his sides only to slip them under his hips and lift them up until Jaskier’s propped up on his knees, he gasps in what almost sounds like surprise.

He looks incredible like this, his chest still pressed to the bed and the perfect swell of his ass on display, the blush that never seems to leave his cheeks only making it better.

Geralt doesn’t torture either of them with anticipation, running a line of dry, calming kisses down Jaskier’s back and getting a better grip of his thighs to keep him in place. As he runs his tongue over the crease of the bard’s thighs for the first time, slow and wet, he can hear Jaskier gasp into the pillows, and it’s all the encouragement he needs.

Geralt presses his tongue closer and swipes it up again, listening to every little noise that Jaskier makes. He lets the bard rock his hips into the touch but keeps him at a steady, slow rhythm, until he relaxes enough to whimper in response to every touch. Only then does Geralt allow himself to go further, applying more pressure with every drag of his tongue, teasing at the bard’s hole, and Jaskier trembles under him.

His cock is leaking steadily onto the bed covers, and Geralt knows that they’re going to absolutely ruin them by morning, but that doesn’t concern him in the least. Not with Jaskier panting and whimpering because of him.

Jaskier is eager to get more, and he relaxes quickly, allowing Geralt to press harder, push his tongue inside, his lips and chin slick with spit. If he could, he would gladly spend the entire night like this, licking into the bard’s hot, tight body and feeling his thighs shake where his fingers are digging into them.

“Oh, fuck, Geralt, please--” Jaskier sniffles, and Geralt can feel the salty tang of his tears. “Please, don’t stop. Do anything you want to me but just don’t stop.”

Geralt is happy to oblige, ignoring his own throbbing cock, painfully hard and leaking just as much as Jaskier’s. But he can’t help but think about what it will feel like to sink into that hot, pliable body that’s taking his tongue so eagerly, and his vision darkens for an agonisingly long moment. His entire body responds to the fantasy, tingling and aching, and he just barely has it in him not to wrap a hand around himself.

He makes himself focus completely on Jaskier, on the way he claws at the sheets, rocking his hips faster, fucking himself onto Geralt’s tongue, and it takes him everything he’s got to keep his own movements slow and gentle - a sharp contrast to the bard’s eagerness.

He presses in close, sinking his tongue deep into the bard’s body and then withdrawing almost fully, and gets completely lost in, fucking him just like that until Jaskier’s moan suddenly breaks off into a sharp cry and his hips snap forward as he comes, spilling all over the sheets.

Geralt fucks him through it, his head reeling with the overwhelming scent of the bard’s pleasure, and when he finally breaks away, he has to steady himself with a hand on Jaskier’s hip because for a second he feels completely disoriented.

Jaskier’s entire body trembles with the aftershocks of his orgasm, but he keeps his hips up even as he hides his face in the pillows, his breath coming in short uneven gasps.

Geralt allows him his time, peppering kisses all over his back until he finally reaches his shoulders and Jaskier turns around, his arms wrapping around Geralt’s neck and pulling him into a heated kiss. All tension is gone from his body, and when Geralt pulls him closer, until their hips are pressed together again, he allows himself to be manoeuvred willingly.

“Gods, that was--” he chokes out, voice hoarse. “That was incredible.”

Geralt just smiles into his lips, kisses him again, slower and deeper this time, licking into Jaskier’s mouth and sharing his taste with him.

“Now that didn’t hurt, did it?” he teases and Jaskier bites on his lower lip, breaking the tender skin.

“No,” he grins, licking the blood off and rolling his hips against Geralt’s, his cock already half-hard again. “But I want more.”

Oh, that Geralt is more than ready to provide.

He laughs somewhere in the back of his throat and reaches for the previously abandoned vial of oil, leaning into every touch as Jaskier runs his hands down his shoulders and back, gripping and scratching everywhere he can reach.

“Do you want me to start with one or two fingers?” the witcher asks, nosings at the bard’s throat and sucking new marks into it as he drips the oil into his hand and warms it between his fingers.

Jaskier spreads his legs further, full of impatience.

“Two,” he says, running his hand all the way down to the witcher’s ass and digging his fingers into the flesh with a pleased moan. “I want you inside so fucking bad, Geralt, please.”

Geralt is growing just as impatient as he, so he doesn’t wait anymore, just props himself up on one elbow, his lips never leaving the bard’s neck, and slips his hand between his legs, circling two fingers around Jaskier’s twitching hole before slowly pushing them inside.

Jaskier arches off the bed with a broken moan, and his sharp nails rake down the witcher’s shoulders, leaving burning scratches behind. He rolls his hips, taking Geralt’s fingers in deeper, and throws his head back, exposing his neck.

Geralt takes advantage of it without hesitation, switching his lips for his teeth and biting down, not hard enough to draw blood though only just. Jaskier’s mouth falls open as he suppresses another moan, and all of it is so overwhelming that all Geralt can concentrate on is his scent and the hot tightness of his body where he fucks him with his fingers. It’s only a matter of minutes before there is no more resistance and he adds a third one.

“Gods, Geralt, if I didn’t kiss you then, how much longer would it have taken us?” Jaskier pants, a whine escaping his lips at the stretch.

Years, maybe, Geralt thinks, Until one of them would finally break. Or maybe just a month or two, until they would get drunk and would no longer be able to keep their hands to themselves. But nothing that could’ve been would not have been better than this. If they waited longer, maybe Geralt would not have been the first one. If they waited longer, maybe Jaskier would have just stopped waiting for him to make up his mind, and gave himself to someone else.

That thought runs through Geralt’s entire body like a wave of suffocating heat and he growls.

“You don’t even know what it does to me - knowing that I’m the first man to touch you like this,” he breathes into the bard’s ear.

Jaskier seems to be about to answer when Geralt’s fingers brush over just the right spot inside, and his eyes fly open as he gasps.

“Right there,” he pleads, curling into Geralt’s body. “Right there, please, Geralt, please.”

For a second Geralt wonders if Jaskier could come three times in a row, if he could get hard again if he was to keep fucking his just like this until he’s absolutely ruined, but he just can’t ignore his own desire any longer. He’s lightheaded with it, almost dizzy, and he just won’t make it through another round like this.

He moves his wrist faster, keeping the same angle, and Jaskier whines and trembles under him, his cock hard and leaking again, making a mess of his stomach. And as soon as he relaxes enough, Geralt withdraws his fingers, swallowing the bard’s disheartened moan with a kiss.

“Breathe for me,” he says softly, dripping more oil into his hand to slick himself up and clenching his jaw at the friction of his own calloused fingers. “Just breathe, Jask.”

Jaskier does as he’s told, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s neck again to keep him close, and Geralt holds the gaze of his darkened eyes as he aligns himself and slowly pushes in.

They moan in perfect unison, and Geralt drops his head to rest it against Jaskier’s sweat-slick shoulder, his eyes fluttering closed as he sinks deeper into his hot, welcoming body, barely able to breathe.

The sense of time is completely lost to him, and he’s not sure just how long it takes before he finally bottoms out, but once he does, Jaskier’s ankles clasp together on the small of his back, and the bard pulls his closer, hands fluttering blindly over Geralt’s face until he finally tips his chin up and captures his lips in a kiss.

He’s still so impossibly fucking tight that it almost hurts, and Geralt moans into his lips as he slowly rolls his hips, carefully starting to move.

“Fuck, Geralt, I’m not letting you out of this bed for days,” Jaskier breathes in a loud whisper, moving to meet the witcher half-way.

They fall into a perfect rhythm easily, slow and careful at first, but faster as Jaskier gets used to it, staying close enough to breathe the same air, gasps and moans falling off their lips and getting lost in tender kisses.

Geralt had slept with a lot of people in his life, both men and women, but it has never felt like this, like they’re not just having sex, not just fucking but making love. And fuck if he can see himself opting for anything else ever again.

His chest feels tight with emotions, and Geralt hides his face in the delicate curve of the bard’s shoulder, kissing and biting everywhere he can reach, moving faster until Jaskier is whimpering again, snapping his hips just in time to sink as far down as possible every single time.

“There are so many things that I want you to do to me,” he whispers, voice shaking as his nails dig deep into Geralt’s shoulders. “So many things I want to do to you, if you only knew--”

The temptation is too strong to withstand, and Geralt doesn’t even think as he snaps his hips, hard and deep, making Jaskier cry out and drag his nails down his shoulders, leaving bleeding marks behind. Geralt moans breathlessly, always the one to mix pain into his pleasure, and the smell of blood is so intoxicating that it nearly pushes him over the edge.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier gasps, wrapping his legs tighter around his waist, encouraging. “Again.”

Geralt doesn’t have to be asked twice. He snaps his hips again, just as hard, and Jaskier’s entire body trembles in response as he throws his head back onto the pillows, his cock twitching where it’s pressed against Geralt’s stomach.

They’re both close, and Geralt can’t keep the slow pace up any longer, shifting just enough to brace himself better against the bed and picking the speed up, one of his hands coming down to squeeze Jaskier’s thigh and keep him close.

He’s vaguely aware that the headboard of the bed is knocking into the wall behind it with every thrust of his hips and that it’s already late at night but that’s not something that really concerns him right now, because all he can concentrate on is the heat of Jaskier’s body and his moans and gasp that drown in messy kisses.

Jaskier scratches Geralt’s back and shoulders raw, arching off the bed and desperately trying to keep up with the witcher, pushing them both closer to the edge.

His hands are shaking when he reaches out to intercept Geralt’s wrist as the witcher lets go of his thigh and slips between their heated bodies, and Geralt only hesitates for a second before obliging and returning his hand to where it was.

“Let me come untouched,” Jaskier pants, and his eyes glisten with tears again. “Please, just don’t stop.”

The knot low in Geralt’s abdomen ties tighter and tighter, making him tremble with the sharpening pleasure, the tips of his fingers numb from hyperventilation, and it only takes him one more sharp snap of his hips, one more set of bleeding scratches on his back for the orgasm to crash over him in a suffocating wave. He bites into the bard’s lips, spilling deep into his body and still moving, and he’s still trembling when Jaskier catches up with him and comes all over both their stomachs.

He clings onto Geralt’s neck, both their bodies shaking with the aftershocks, and Geralt can’t even imagine just how much time passes before they let each other go. He pulls out carefully, knowing just how sensitive Jaskier is right now, but the bard still gasps softly, though whether it’s from pain or pleasure Geralt can’t tell.

He falls onto the pillows beside the bard, his body lighter than he can remember it ever being, and pulls Jaskier into his arms, tucking him against his chest, safe and warm. They need to clean up, to take the bed cover off but all of that can wait, and right now all that matters is the way Jaskier leans into his touch, pressing a smudged kiss to Geralt’s chest. He’s still trembling, though barely perceptible, and it sends Geralt’s head reeling all over again.

A few long, comfortable minutes pass by in silence as they just breathe together. Then, Geralt asks:

“Was it like you’d imagined?”

Jaskier laughs quietly, pulling back just enough to look Geralt in the eyes, steal a gentle kiss from him.

“No,” he smiles. “It was much better.”

Geralt snorts, propping himself up on one elbow to get a proper look at the bard, run his gaze down his entire body, slender and beautiful. The words are right there, on the tip of his tongue, and while he still has the courage, he needs to say them.

“Jask,” he calls softly, getting the bard's attention. “You do know that I love you, don’t you?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen slightly and Geralt can hear his heart skip a beat, but then he’s smiling, so bright and happy that it almost hurts.

“Oh, Geralt,” he says, voice breaking like he’s about to cry.

He sits up, throwing his arms around Geralt’s neck when he does the same, and hugs him so tight that he knocks the air out of the witcher’s lungs. When he pulls back, his eyes are shining with tears.

“I didn’t know,” he says, sniffling and laughing when Geralt reaches up to wipe the tears from his cheeks. “Not until tonight, at least. But with the way you touched me, the way you cared so much about my comfort, oh, Melitele preserve me.”

He covers Geralt’s hand with his own and pulls it to his lips to press a kiss to the witcher’s fingers.

“I love you,” he whispers, lifting his eyes to meet Geralt’s. “Gods, of course, I love you, I’ve loved you ever since we met.”

And then his lips are on Geralt’s again, and it’s so much, so much that all the witcher can do is kiss back, his heart beating against his ribcage so hard that he feels like it might actually break through it. He wraps his arms around Jaskier’s back, and when the bard breaks away, breathless, the corners of his lips are still curled up in a smile.

“Do you think we’ve woken all the other guests up yet?” he enquires, eyes sparkling.

Geralt falls into pretend consideration for a second then shrugs with one shoulder and grins.

“Not all of them,” he says.

Jaskier mirrors his grin.

“Wonderful,” he says, pushing the witcher down onto his back and straddling his hips. “Then we ought to fix that.”

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #my writing #calton writes #oh gods this one was a ride

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